The Private Journal of John H Watson, MD
by Sparticus328
Summary: Tie-in to "Through the Eyes of Madness," though can also be read independently: This is what comes about when our favorite Doctor Watson is given an exercise to write down his thoughts. We begin in a darkish place, where John has recently returned from war...before he is met with a brilliant light for whom he will be an indispensable prism of focus. (Rating for violence).
1. Chapter 1: Wednesday

**A/N: I created this journal on a whim while working on "Through the Eyes of Madness." It has since become a part of the plot, and I intend to use pieces of this in the body of that thread-parent fic. The chapters will be short, and there are likely to be gaps... Think of it as if you're reading the journal as John is writing it. ****This is an exercise for me, but I do hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: The original character of John is uniquely created by Sir ACD. Any adjustments to his original characterization or personality as defined by this Journal are completely and totally fabrications by me.**

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Wednesday.

Almost a week ago now, E suggested I do this. Write. She thinks it will help me cope with my...experiences in Afghanistan. To be honest, I'm not all that sure it will do anything but waste paper.

I already started that damned blog she told me to. "Share your experiences," she said. Horseshit, if you ask me. Who is going to want to read a blog from a damaged army-doctor..._former_ army doctor, excuse me.

And this journal, she said this would be for those thoughts that I wanted kept private. Public consumption of a veteran's war wounds would not be universally accepted, and I would receive criticism. This is meant to be my safe medium...

How frustrating. A soldier spends his time practicing the establishment of freedom, only to be the subject of gossip-mongering. And the target of anger and hurt. To displace their own pain, they will shell it out on our country's returning fighting men.

Right. As if I had a choice of what I did during the war. I was there to save lives. Part of the RAMC. But did I serve as a doctor? Even when that was my formal training? No. I was a sentry, guarding the perimeter of the camps. I was a close-combat officer sent to eliminate threats to our efforts. Gratefully, they were mostly small-scale attacks with one or two targets at a time. It always unsettled me to go after lives so callously. But, those were orders.

I see now what she meant about public consumption of this kind of information. Most of what I did is classified action… I really shouldn't be revealing details of what I had been involved in... And that's why I am to write it here.

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**A/N: I know...it's short. But these entries are intended to be little more than snapshots into John's mind. I would still very much like to know what you think, review or PM!**


	2. Chapter 2: Thursday

**A/N: Continuing with the experiment... We read from John's journal once more, one week from the last entry...**

**Disclaimer: Arthur, Steven, and Mark, I owe it all to you...and of course Benedict and Martin for providing such profound performances!**

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Thursday.

E was leading a group therapy session. I never asked to be a part of one. I was given my weekly appointment as usual, so I didn't suspect. But when I got there, five more "veterans" were already there.

Embarrassing. And here my therapist was pushing me to expose my failures, admit my weaknesses. She said it would be cathartic, to get it all off of my chest and unburden my shoulders. How stupid does she think I am? A failure is a failure, a blind spot is a blind spot. No touchy-feely therapy is going to make that weight any less of a reality.

There is nothing cathartic about admitting you weren't where you were supposed to be, about leaving your mates on their own, about almost being responsible for the deaths of others...

At one point, E actually said I didn't have to say anything - very kindly lying through her teeth. I think she was just covering for the fact that I _wasn't_ saying anything...or possibly trying to guilt me into saying something.

I'll just not go back, I think. I'll keep up with writing this journal. That does help. A bit. At least when it's written down, it's not so close to the front of my mind.

That blog is ridiculous, though. Since day one, I still don't have anything to say in public forum. I can't write about my past... And who is going to want to read my present?

I've tried. I open it up, I log in...and I stare at a blank screen. Almost an hour goes by...I log out.

What if I gave it up? Stopped trying to write a digital memoir for a stagnant life...? I can't. That would make me feel like I've run away from something.

I am not a coward, I just don't have anything to say to the rest of the world.

John Watson, still a failure.

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**A/N: There it is. I do apologize for the gaps between entries...but it is on purpose. All too soon, the entries will be one right after the other. (Sherlock, he is an inspiration for all.) Alright, that's it...now lemme know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3: Friday

**A/N: I must give a resounding shout of thanks to my good friend Gameson221b! You are such a wonderful encouragement! Thank you once again for your faithful support! And now, read and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, I realize that...but I do love it so much!**

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Friday.

Stitches out. Still sore as hell. Not all that bad, considering what others have had.

There's still a bit of shrapnel in there. But the doctor said it would do more harm to remove it than to leave it in. Fine with me. If that's the price, I'll take it. I'll just be on an aspirin regimen for the rest of my life.

The part that really bothers me is this stupid leg. E said it was psychosomatic, related to my trauma. If the trauma was to my shoulder, why was my leg affected? Psychology is stupid.

But damn, this hurts.

I didn't think a pain created by my mind would get worse... I was wrong. Of course, sitting on my arse probably isn't helping. No job and no luck, living on my own with an army pension, and running out of motivation...

I find I am sitting in my flat alone more often than anything else. Not only am I bored and in pain to the point I've developed a dependency on over-the-counter NSAIDs, but I'm beginning to get used to it.

I've got to get out of this life.

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**A/N: I love that as this journal continues, I channel John and take on aspects of his personality... My friends are getting concerned... I can't help it that I have irresistible urges to chase bad people...**


	4. Chapter 4: Thursday

**A/N: I must admit, this has been a stressful week for me. The solace I find in writing has seemed very hard to come by. Somehow I managed. With the help of good friends who help me to laugh at myself. **

**Many thanks again to Gameson221b for your constancy and friendship. **

**Disclaimer: Sometimes I imagine...then I realize the truth: I am too broke, there's no way I own it, or I would be seeing some of the profits.**

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Thursday.

The dreams are back. Well...not dreams. Memories. Nightmares, really.

I was out on patrol with five other men. The first squad through was supposed to clear the area. The house was supposed to be empty.

We took gunfire as we approached. We returned fire and made our way inside for cover.

On the first floor, we passed the bodies of the squad that went before us.

One was still breathing. The others went on without looking back. I don't know if they even noticed. Maybe it was my instinct as a doctor, but I stopped to help him.

He was in a bad way...his face and right arm were burned. Close-contact. I didn't try to think of what caused it at the time.

The others kept calling for me. I didn't answer...there were eyes on me. Young eyes. The boy couldn't have been even twelve years old.

Next I knew I was blown into a stone wall, bits of the boy and the other fellow strewn about the place.

When I woke up...my guys were still calling for me.

My ears are still ringing from the blast.

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**A/N: I hope you enjoyed this entry. We are entering into more of John's darker thoughts, the ones only glimpsed upon in the show. Please let me know what you think.**

**Thank you for reading. :)**


	5. Chapter 5: Friday

**A/N: My continued thanks to Gameson221b and your faithful reading and reviewing. It's nice to be able to share this part of John with you...and that we can worry "constantly" together. To all of my readers: ****I hope you like it. Please do let me know what you think of this little "Journal"!**  


**Disclaimer: I don't own it. If I did, John would have more back-story... C'mon, Steven and Mark... get going!**

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Friday.

I feel I should clarify something. That dream... It didn't... After the incident, we went through a week-long debrief, while I began recovery in hospital.

I nearly lost my arm. Had triage been run differently, I would have. But I was important. I was a god-damned doctor. They ended up sending me on a medical evacuation helicopter to some hospital in Switzerland.

Three surgeries later, all of the accessible shrapnel had been removed, and I was on my way to healing. Physically, anyway. The army-issued psychologist came by once a day to remind me of what physical trauma could do to the mind.

I snapped. I started yelling at him, told him I've given that cautionary speech to the men I helped in the field. 'Make sure you've got someone you can talk to.' I didn't need to hear it from some brass who graduated from the academy, but never saw a day of live combat. Pisshead.

He didn't come back. I'm good at driving people away with these bouts of temper. Bad habit...

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**A/N: And there it is. ****After a busy week, and finally being able to post an update to the regular story... Whew. Not "whew" like a weight has been lifted, just "whew" that I had the mental freedom to do it. That freedom, it's a relief.**


	6. Chapter 6: Tuesday

**A/N: Gameson221b, you know this already, but I cannot say it enough: Thank you! Always. For reading my mind and saying exactly the right thing in your reviews. Koram852, you are a wonderful sounding board...thank you so much for letting me ramble on about John and Sherlock.**

**Disclaimer: There are only so many ways I can say I don't own it. It hurts, ok... don't rub it in. ;)**

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Tuesday.

I don't want to be afraid of my past. I see the war every day...whether I'm awake or sleeping. Whole minutes pass, and I am trapped in the haze of what had been.

In basic training, they taught us to use any advantage we could... As the war in Afghanistan continued, priorities changed from any kind of freedom-fight to simply surviving.

We had gone to build schools and hospitals, and educate the people on how to protect and police their own. I still think our main purpose was good.

But too many of us died.

The count of our dead or wounded rose every day, and that was all I could think about. We were fighting in the foothills of a country we didn't know well enough, with a people that was torn between gratitude and resentment. They shook our hands and praised us for the help we provided...until it brought the aggression of the Taliban on them for accepting the help of "kaafir," heathen.

I had thought that we were managing to make a difference. Turning our hurt into good by helping the people who had been told to hate us... When among those people, terrorists had been raised and groomed for death.

I didn't say before, but the boy I had seen...the one from that dream the other night... I met his mother. Halima. She was young, not quite 30 years old. She was seventeen when she had given birth to him. She apologized to me. Her son was dead, and she apologized...?

Fate must be cruel.

I put myself through school to be a doctor, a medical physician. I joined the army... At the time, I thought I did it to keep people from dying.

But there was nothing I could do for the boy. She should have hated me... I hated me. Sometimes I still do. I took lives.

I was no better than the fear-mongers that hid in the caves. I could have bought or stolen a shoulder-fired rocket launcher. I could have destroyed a house... I could have killed a child for standing too close to my enemy...

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**A/N: John has removed a bit of his personal filter in this entry... **

**I do hope you are enjoying getting a little insight into the mind of our dearly loved doctor. Please do tell me your thoughts, I'd really like to know!**


	7. Chapter 7: Monday

**A/N: I warn you now, John's foul mouth begins to show itself in writing. I'm leaving the rating as is for the moment, but if anyone has concerns, please let me know. I will change it.**

**Disclaimer: Let it be known, only Martin and Ben can execute their characters so well. And, only Mark and Steven have the genius to emulate one of the best brains in literary history! (No, they did not pay me to say that...)**

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Monday.

So. I got one of those letters in the mail today... Payment rejected. It wasn't really a letter, though. It was a hand written note, scrawled on the back of the envelope I'd used to send the check. It's a low-income bed-sit, so I can't say that I'm surprised...I mean about the envelope, not the message.

I asked at the bank...my account was overdrawn.

I realize I haven't been keeping up with things. I haven't gotten a job. No offense to the rest of the world, but I haven't been in the mood to be stared at like a dirty shoe.

I have a limp. Yes, thank you. It's a consequence of having fought for my country.

E called this morning, too. She said she was checking in. Wanted to know when I would be back for therapy.

I politely told her to bugger off.

I hadn't realized it had been four weeks, though.

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**A/N: Gameson221b you are so insightful. I do so enjoy that we can commiserate together about John and Sherlock. I have a special chapter for just what you described-though, I will probably post it as a stand-alone because it just doesn't fit anywhere else.**

**Everyone, you know I look forward to your reviews!**


	8. Chapter 8: Friday

**A/N: You may notice, I have changed the rating on this journal. As John has a history in the military, it is to be expected that certain themes will come up. I hope this doesn't put anyone off. We are getting close to the illustrious meeting. In fact, you may recognize a few things. Now, don't let me tell you about it. Go on, read!**

**Disclaimer: Well obviously I don't own it. Nothing I write for Sherlock has ever been filmed... Dammit. **

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Friday.

So, I know I said I wouldn't go back. I'd like to say I didn't have a choice...but I made the decision to renew my appointment with E. At least once more.

To be honest, I scared myself.

After a particularly vivid dream...memory...

Anyway. When I woke up, it was about four in the morning. I sat there on the edge of my bed for hours, not moving, hardly seeing. The street light coming through the window made everything a translucent orange, like marmalade.

When the sun finally came up, and the lamps on the street popped out one by one, I began my day as if nothing were any different. I got myself a cup of tea, and an apple. I got out my laptop...and stared at the gun in the bottom of my desk drawer.

Before I get ahead of myself, I did not have a conscious thought about doing anything... But, in thinking back on it, I wondered about how horribly simple it would be . Lift the weighty sidearm in my hand, press the barrel to my temple, and... And what—let someone else pick up the mess?

That's not a good response, right?

I spent the rest of the morning staring at the empty screen of my blog, before I decided I needed to get out of there.

I went in for my eleven o'clock appointment at ten after. I can't say it was very helpful. It never was before, and I wasn't expecting that to change.

For the first time, though, I saw...I mean I really looked around and acknowledged what I was seeing.

There was nothing in her office. All of the shelves were empty of books or memorabilia. All of the walls were void of any photographs, placards, or notices of degree. There was a plaster bust by the window, but it was impersonal.

A plant would have given the psychiatrist's office a more believable appearance than that plaster bust.

I tried not to think about it. My work in the service has made me a bit jumpy and paranoid. That had to be it.

We sat in silence for the first few minutes. She was apparently waiting for me to start. That was silly of her. I never volunteer information. She new this. She had access to my military record... She even had enough of an account of my family to know we don't get on.

When she finally caught on that I wouldn't be speaking first, she asked: "How's your blog going?"

I told her―ever so eloquently―that it was a waste of time. Actually, I sort of coughed and evaded the whole thing.

She's not so dumb, though, because she pushed the subject. "You haven't written a word, have you?"

I have never been very good with accusations. I narrowed my eyes and debated not responding at all. But that would get us no where, and she may just start talking about whether the storm this afternoon would affect my leg... I really did not want to talk about the psychology behind a fictitious pain.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." It wasn't an answer, but I had to say something. The stillness was getting to me. Like the anticipation before an attack.

It didn't matter that I hadn't responded to her question. She latched onto the comment and went with it. Psychiatrists. "And you read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean?"

My face pinched out a tight smirk. It was pointless. I knew she was right, and she knew I'd never admit it.

I didn't mention the thing about the gun this morning. I think, maybe I suspected she would overreact...

Instead, I talked about needing more permanent housing. The bedsit found by the exit officer who organized my retirement was fine for temporary residence, but I was never supposed to be there more than six months. I didn't want to live out of a bag, like I was staying at a hotel-indefinitely.

She couldn't offer any suggestions. Just non-committal references about reintroduction to civilian life. She actually had the nerve to ask me to write about it in my blog. A first entry to commemorate my first independent move after the army. She said, "writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Why the hell was she pushing this blog idea?

Nothing happens to me.

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**A/N: This really should have been posted hours ago. I got held up at work, and didn't have the chance until now. Gameson221B, I hope I didn't tease too much with the early notice. :)**

**I hope you all enjoyed this little addition (little, ha...it's almost twice the length of the previous entries). Please let me know what you thought. Don't let the word "review" daunt you, comment, dialogue, quote... express it any way you like. I do like to know!**


	9. Chapter 9: Sunday

**A/N: So. This chapter is longer...and only the beginning. Gameson221b, thank you for always being so constant, so giving, so loyal, and so wonderful! Koram852, thank you for listening to me rant in panic...You could tell me to shut up and get over it, but I sooo appreciate your understanding!... For all, thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I know it's illegal to own a person... Do characters count? Aw. Damn. Anyway... The show is, of course, not mine. If it were, I would have met the actors by now...or at the very least, own a copy of the scripts! Instead, I rely on my copy of the DVDs, my memory, and the reliable transcript by arianedevere of livejournal.**

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Sunday.

I went on a walk this morning. I just had to get out. The space in my rooms at the bedsit had become chokingly confining.

Anyway, I was crossing through the park and I ran into an old school mate―Mike Stamford. I never really thought of us being much in the way of friends at school, but he was a cheery fellow.

He was apologetic when he realized his sarcastic humor about my being in the army was true. He seemed genuinely concerned when he put that together with my limp. I didn't try to correct him. It was too complicated to explain that the limp was psychosomatic. I wasn't going to mention my shoulder.

We picked up a coffee at the Criterion Cafe and sat on a bench along the path. Anything to keep me out of my flat.

We talked about old times, and how our lives changed. The plans we had made in our early twenties did not compare to the lives we're living now. As it turns out, Mike teaches at the hospital where we both did our residency―St. Bart's.

I don't think I'd have needed to mention my shoulder... My left hand went numb while holding my coffee...I had to switch hands and knead out the feeling. I think he noticed. I caught his glance and tried very hard not to shout at him. I told myself that the look he gave me wasn't pity...maybe sympathy. He was another doctor, he had the same medical training that I had.

I had to distract myself, talk about something else. I let it slip about my financial complications, and my need of new living arrangements.

I actually started talking about the things E told me I should: The lack of a job, my family not being supportive, my alcoholic sister being so...dramatic. I didn't have to say anything about my phantom wound or the effects of my actual injuries. But as we talked, I started to feel as if I could have. I was expressing more of my life to this person, this almost friend, than I could to my supposed therapist.

I couldn't believe the difference of actually letting someone in... Or, was all of that tension and frustration just boiling over finally?

"Who'd want me for a flat-mate?" I was annoyed with myself.

Then he said something that pulled me out of my self-pity.

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

I couldn't help it―I was curious, and Mike thought he could be helpful, so I walked with him back to Bart's. At least I wouldn't be going back to my flat for a while.

I was a little surprised when he led me to the research laboratories. The walk-through tour was interesting. All of the rooms had the same purposes, though the markings had been updated...doors had been replaced, and the equipment was decades newer...

I was starting to get annoyed. Could one person be so difficult to find...? But there he was standing at the far end of the last lab. He leaned over a light-table, piping something onto a sample dish. He glanced up once, acknowledging our interruption and dismissing it as quickly.

Mike nodded at the other man in the room, clearly trying to _subtly_ let me know we had found who we had been looking for. Alright. Thank you...he's the only other person we'd come across since we stepped foot on this level. I could _not_ have figured that on my own...

Anyway, I couldn't very well shout at him 'Hey, are you looking for a flatmate? Sorry, but it's kind of an emergency. I'm about to be evicted.' That'd win him over for sure.

Instead I stared at him, I'm not sure how long. I did try to be discreet...

"A bit different from my day..." I tried to cover my blatant curiosity, though I'd said as much half an hour earlier to Mike when we'd stepped into the hospital. Just what was I doing?

Mike chuckled. I could have choked him.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

Without patting the pockets of his suit jacket, Mike turned to the other man. "...In my coat."

"Er, here. Use mine." What was the matter with me? From the moment we entered the room, I had lost all control over my own mouth.

"Oh. Thank you..."

He looked at me, an evaluating once over...a slow draw of eyes from the outstretched cuff of my right-hand sleeve, to my collar, and down to my feet, including a rather intense analysis of my titanium cane. I couldn't tell if he'd come to any conclusions, though. His face was...hard to read.

"It's...an old friend of mine. John Watson." I could tell by Mike's hesitation, he expected some kind of criticism. But this man didn't have the cold stare that most training officers adopt in a dressing-down. His face was so fluidly transitioning, I got the oddest feeling...he was reading _me_. Not in this particular moment, but whole pieces of myself.

He lifted my mobile from my hand without looking away. His eyes were an iridescent blue, so many shades lighter than my own...

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

My stomach turned. "Sorry?" I looked to Mike, turning back quickly.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I shifted under his scrutiny and he turned to the phone, finishing his text and sending it before handing the device back.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how could you know?" I glanced at Mike again. He was grinning. He had been waiting for this...? Was this the criticism I thought he was expecting? It was hardly criticism...more like curiosity, a puzzle being worked out...

"How do you feel about the violin?"

I stared at him, mystified by the abrupt change. He was back at his workstation, typing on a computer. For the briefest moment, I thought he was asking me... I'm shaking my head at the idea of it, even now...

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked up at me expectantly, flashing a very wide, very fake smile... The smile vanished, and he evaluated me seriously.

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't even met him, not really—I hadn't even heard his name—and he was talking as if moving in together was a done deal.

I looked at Mike. My old schoolmate smirked back at me, knowingly.

I swallowed the shout that bubbled at the base of my throat. I was being irrational. Mike had not set up a prank on me, he hadn't even made a phone call since I'd run into him at the park... There had to be an explanation.

I kept staring at Mike. "Oh, you... You told him about me?"

Mike raised his shoulders defensively. "Not a word."

I was uncomfortably aware of my temper. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

A haze of motion drew my eyes back to the other man. He pulled a long coat over his shoulders, threading his arms in the sleeves. "I did." He said it as if that fact was all that mattered. But, he continued his explanation. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend—clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult of a leap."

I clenched my jaw. Did he really just make a crack at my intelligence? "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

He must have selective hearing. He skipped right over my question, and went on to details about a flat he'd found in central London, and wanting to meet me there tomorrow. As he spoke, he strode to the door.

I couldn't decide if he was trying to be difficult, or if he was just naturally...wild.

"Is that it?" I was a bit impatient. All of this expectation and no information for me, I was just supposed to go along with it. I had learned more than once that 'just going along with it' could be a bad business.

He stopped and came away from the door, turning and putting his hands in his pockets like he had all afternoon. He obviously didn't though, he was still shifting between feet. He was impatient as well. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met, and we're gonna go and look at a flat? We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. And I don't even know your name."

Just as I thought earlier, he had read me. He listed off an analysis of my life in less than three seconds. And he knew more about me than I think Mike did. He even mentioned my therapist and the problem with my leg... I hadn't said anything about that to Mike.

I guess I can't say it anymore. Something seems to be happening now. I even have an appointment on my calendar:

7pm, tomorrow

Sherlock Holmes

221B Baker Street

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**A/N: After a minor freakout last week...our boys have now officially met. *Sigh.* More to come! Stay tuned for the thrilling adventures and personality conflicts of Sherlock Holmes...and friend. Just the one. :)**


	10. Chapter 10: Still Sunday

**A/N: So, it just wasn't complete. Expect this. Very soon, John will not have time to write everything in a single entry. He will write when he can. And so will I. I hope you like!**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. I weep, a familiar gray t-shirt tucked close.**

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Still Sunday.

Entirely for the sake of curiosity, I looked at the text he'd sent. It made no more sense than the man I just met:

"If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. SH"

The fact that this man could read so much about me without so much as shaking my hand... I had to know more.

My laptop's still out. I never put it away this morning after another failed jaunt of attempted blog-writing. I still ended up staring at the screen. But the internet was built for more than social over-sharing.

So, I looked him up... He has a bloody website. "The Science of Deduction." Dreadful. Curious stuff. I spent far too long reading those 'deductions' of his. He would have to explain a few things if we were to be living together.

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**A/N: Remember, I like to know what your thoughts are...that little box over there...you know the one.**


	11. Chapter 11: Monday

**A/N: I have such wonderful friends and readers! Gameson221b, you always make me happy with your reviews! I love the encouragement, and thank you endlessly for your devotion to these little fics. KoraM852, I know you'd rather be writing for Data...thank you that much more for helping me with John and Sherlock. CiCi98, thank you again for your thoughts! I hope this has lead you to want to re-watch all of Sherlock. It has me! Everyone, please read and enjoy this next entry into John's journal.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the show, neither have I met the cast, crew, or creators of Sherlock... Jeez, don't rub it in. I know it already! *Weep***

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Monday.

I walked up the street just before seven. I made good time, taking the tube and then walking a few blocks. Awkward, especially with all of those goddamn stares.

I'm not a leper, people. I'm a war veteran. A little appreciation for serving my country would be nice.

Anyway. As I came around the fencing, I saw a door with brass numerals nailed to the wood surface. The numbers emblazoned above a heavy-looking door knocker identified the address as 221B. I made it, despite my damned leg.

The paint on the door was weather-worn but well maintained. Not a flake of loose paint could be seen. And the small deli next door looked welcoming. I could see myself here, on this street where order seemed paramount.

I knocked, feeling a bit awkward. Half of me wanted to walk away and forget the prospect. The other half...was nearly tingling in anticipation.

A cab pulled up at the street, and there he was. Tall, exiting easily from the back seat. He paid the cabbie and stepped up beside me to shake my hand. I couldn't help but watch him. He seemed to be vibrating with excitement. Wherever he had just come from...because I refused to think it was because of me...

He told me briefly about how he had found the flat. Some connection he had with the landlady, Mrs Hudson, and the execution of her late husband. Sherlock assured me, he had ensured the outcome.

Just as the words left his lips, the lady opened the door and greeted him in a surprisingly warm hug. I couldn't believe it. The man I had met yesterday seemed hardly able to greet a person properly, and here this woman was doling out affection as if he were her own son. He even managed to make introductions for us.

I smiled and made my way amicably, ducking into the flat as she held the door back for us. Sherlock followed me in, and led me up a narrow flight of stairs to the second landing.

He waited for me. Was this to make a good impression? After yesterday's interaction...

I promised myself I would take it a moment at a time. I needed this, after all. I had to get away from the bedsit. I had to start my life...

I was a bit concerned when he opened the door. There was clutter everywhere. So much for my nice, ordered neighborhood... My flat would be absolute chaos. My flatmate a veritable storm of activity, seemingly never at rest.

"It could be nice," I heard myself say. I won't lie, I had imagined the rooms to be different. Perhaps, because he was looking for someone to share the rent with, I expected there would be...space to accommodate another person. Lucky for him, I have very little.

He started shifting things around the rooms, going between stacks of books and papers, to teetering piles of file boxes and a packing trunk. The mail was hand delivered to the mantle—and stabbed with a utility knife.

I felt the smile pull at my face and worked to control it. At least he was consistent. Haphazard interpersonal skills, poor housekeeping, and little consideration for others. It was fitting. And unexpected. And fun.

I was happy. In all this chaos, I felt a kind of peace I'd never really known before.

Mrs. Hudson had followed us up the stairs. I suppose she was curious about her possible new tenant. She wrung her hands and asked how I liked the place, going on a bit nervously about a second bedroom upstairs.

What was she thinking? What had he told her?

I stared at her, my eyes darting to Sherlock and back. He wasn't looking at me, conveniently enough. He was turned toward the opposite wall.

I blinked at the older woman, suspicion making my eyes squint. "Of course we'll be needing two."

Mrs. Hudson genially excused the awkward moment by discussing the neighbors. She busied herself by complaining to Sherlock about some mess in the kitchen area. I didn't notice anything amiss...a chemistry set up on the table, perhaps. But was that so odd? Especially for someone who professed himself able to deduce anything.

I sat down, grateful to be off my feet after that walk. Psychosomatic or not, my limp wreaks havoc with my low-back.

Sherlock seemed to have settled a bit, turning to his desk and a hibernating laptop. He opened the cover and tapped it to life. I confessed to him that I'd looked him up on the internet. I tried not to pay attention to the stutter of my insides at the expression he gave me... Curiosity? Worry? A bit more than mild interest.

He was obviously proud of his website, or at least the deductions he toted on its pages. I had my doubts, and I wanted some real answers before I committed to moving in. If I had to live with this incredible person, I wanted to base it on more than a convenient living arrangement and a decent rent.

I challenged him, and I learned something new. He doesn't like being called out. He shot back two personal points he'd identified about me yesterday. Two things which I am still trying to come to terms with.

"I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" But he still wouldn't answer me.

Mrs. Hudson pulled the paper from somewhere and started talking about this unsettling case that's been circulating. Serial suicides. Nasty business...

And it was brought to our doorstep by the lead investigator himself, DI Greg Lestrade.

Apparently, Sherlock gets involved in police cases. Rather, they involve him. And now me. Because I'm a doctor. An army doctor accustomed to violence. And I can't say no when someone asks for my help.

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**A/N: I have to say this here, just in case... This day's activities may take me a bit longer to write than I anticipated. I will post them as I am able! In the meanwhile, please let me know your thoughts!**


	12. Chapter 12: Monday, Again

**A/N: God, I hope no one at work reads this...posting entries during hours...eek! Not the writing, thought. No, the writing requires an entirely separate environment. Gameson221b, you know the ones...one of those bolt-holes... **

**Disclaimer: Again, not mine. Again, weeping...**

* * *

Monday, again.

We took a taxi to the crime scene. It isn't terribly far to Brixton from Baker Street, but it gave me enough uninterrupted time to get some answers from my new acquaintance.

The confined space of the cab kept the man still enough, but he continued to fidget and toy with his phone for most of the ride.

I had given up asking the questions... Twice now—first at Bart's, then back at the flat—I had tried to get him to tell me how he knew what he did, but he flew right past my queries. This time, with my silence, he managed to pick up on my need for answers.

What he said...the way he presented it... like it had been stoppered up inside, and he'd uncorked the bottle to let it all bubble out. Every detail of my person, from my haircut to my tan lines, from my limp to my therapist, from my phone to my drunk... Just as I thought, he'd been reading me.

"That...was amazing."

When he looked back at me, the expression on his face...he wasn't expecting praise. He wasn't expecting anything good at all. To be honest, when he finished speaking, he actually looked...concerned. Not doubting his deductions by any means, but he was doubting...himself, whether or not I could accept him for all his rambling revelations.

And again I was tossed into that dead space of air, the one where he knew everything about me and I knew nearly nothing of him.

* * *

**A/N: I had this entry done last night, but I was too gawd-awful tired to see the keys anymore to post it up...so, this morning instead! I hope you like! We have a few more to go before "Monday" is complete-it's a busy day, and John is having a difficult time finding the opportunity to write... Still, please let me know your thoughts!**


	13. Chapter 13: Still Monday

**A/N: Thank you, everyone, for your patience. Monday is a very long day for John, and he just doesn't have the proper time to write his thoughts. He's squeezing in bits here and there as he is able. (As am I.) Koram852, you had better be reviewing...as you elected not to beta this journal. Gameson221b, thank you for keeping up with me! **

**Disclaimer: You want me to say it again. Glutton for punishment, aren't we? I. Do. Not. Own. It. Nor do I claim to in any way. I just dream big.**

* * *

Still Monday.

Maybe I just didn't want to be left at home, maybe I wanted to feel useful again. Maybe I thought I could make a difference... I'm not so sure now.

I've been trying not to think about it. And, God help me if anyone ever reads this...

I'm supposed to be familiar with death, having seen violent acts and all manner of gruesome things that war shows about the nature of man. But none of that prepared me for seeing that poor woman dead on the floor.

Suicide? No, not like that. Not with the effort and pain involved in scrawling a word on the floor, breaking and splintering her own fingernails. Sherlock's right. It was murder.

The human constitution is to fight for life. Being a medical man, I can tell you every circumstance in which the body works to preserve life. Just to name one? Pain and the psychological fight or flight response. If a person is threatened or harmed, instinct tells us to either run away from that pain, or to confront and defeat it.

Had that been suicide, there would have been more evidence of it... psychology aside, the human body has autonomic functions—like breathing—that cannot be willed away. Poison is a foreign substance. The body will do what it knows to reject it, hence the vomit.

It's not easy to take your own life... I would know.

There. I admitted it. I had thought about it...hell, I tried it...kind of. I pulled the gun from the drawer. I cleaned it, like I do every week. I disassembled the pieces on an oil cloth, wiped them down, and reassembled them. I snapped the clip in place, and primed the first shot. I held the barrel between my teeth...and sank my elbows to my knees.

I didn't have the resolve to go through with it...

Anyway...

There was no sign of the poison in that room. Each of the victims took a time-released poison, then. That means it's capsulized, easy for consumption. The capsule shell would need to be easily dissolved by the stomach, making the effects fast, quickly absorbed and irreversible.

They must be pressured into taking the pill somehow. A threat...?

If that great consulting detective was as good as he claimed, he'd probably thought of that already... And now he's run off... No idea where or what for.

Why had I come along again?

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**A/N: I'm not a doctor, or a shrink. Please excuse any inaccuracies in those fields. I hope you enjoyed this entry. Do let me know!**


	14. Chapter 14: Still Monday, again

**A/N: I was minorly distracted (that's a lie, it was actually a big detour-like distraction) for an upcoming entry, and didn't manage to finish this one until now. Gameson221b, you..."you keep me right." My little tangent of thought was reigned in from the realm of "Nope, not going to post that" back to the proper plot thanks in large part to your recent review. Koram852, thank you for helping me reason my way to the other side of that tangent. And for your insight to matters relating to content... Everyone, please enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: Okay, I understand. Really, honestly and completely, it is not mine. The franchise is huge, are you kidding? No one person could own that!**

* * *

Still Monday, again.

I swear, it feels like someone's following me. Every phone on this street has rung as I near it, be it a public call box or business. And then, when I pass by, it stops.

The first few times, I dismissed it as coincidence. But...every phone! Maybe I'm being paranoid again...

If it happens one more time, I'm going to answer it. Just to see.

* * *

So, I've just been kidnapped. Very civilly done, too. Like I said, I answered the next call box to ring. I watched as CCTV cameras spun at the supposed command of the voice on the other end of the line. Though, if he thought that would unnerve me, he had another thing coming.

It wasn't worth my arguing when he told me to get into the car that pulled up at the street. The way I saw it, I would get a free ride, and—as it turned out—I got to sit next to a very pretty...and rather inattentive lady.

For clandestine meetings, this guy knew his stuff. He didn't follow the stereotypical protocols shown in movies. I didn't even have my eyes covered. I freely looked out the window, mapping the roads we took.

But, I knew that freedom was just for show. It was nothing to silence someone if you didn't want them blabbing about where you'd gone. Personal experience...

He chose a secluded space, a warehouse in the waterfront district. The night crew had probably been paid to be scarce. If this guy had the kind of power to control city surveillance cameras, then the security systems in the warehouse would have been easily deactivated.

I wasn't sure what to expect from this impromptu meeting. So, I took it as I did most of my work for the service...one moment at a time.

The instant I stepped out of the car, I was inordinately aware. A man stood a few paces off waiting for our arrival, leaning on an umbrella. Except, he wasn't leaning on it. He was standing with one ankle crossed over the other, perfectly balanced. If he had been there five minutes or an hour, I doubted there would have been a noticeable difference.

The condescending prick had the nerve to offer me a chair. He lifted the end of the umbrella and pointed, as if I were too stupid to notice the piece of furniture sitting in the middle of the damp yard. First, I'm not blind and the leg really wasn't bothering me right then. Second, I would put myself at a disadvantage if I had done. And I knew far too well that it was easy to be garroted from behind when seated. If I were to sit, I may as well slit my own throat.

He stood on both feet once I had got across that I wouldn't be sitting.

His mannerisms and jaunty attitude gave me the impression that very little mattered to him. But, I was getting on his nerves...the too quick responses and the dismissive laughter gave him away. He was used to controlling other people. But, I wasn't playing his games, and he didn't like that.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

Connection? There wasn't one. I hadn't even made a decision about the flat yet...not vocally, anyway.

This person was under the impression that I had already packed up my bags and moved in. And was partnering Sherlock in solving murders...I guess he didn't see that Sherlock had left me behind at the crime scene.

My phone chimed, and would you guess that the subject of our conversation had texted me? I hadn't really been in contact with anyone on this phone. Even Harry rarely called... And yet, Sherlock texted me. I don't know why, but the fact makes me very glad.

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

He wasn't distracting me at all. I still wasn't listening to him. He kept going on...actually thinking that he had an impact on whether I chose to be Sherlock's friend. Too late. When Mike introduced us and made that flippant remark... "He's always like that." The moment Sargent Donovan tried to warn me off... "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." No one could tell me he wasn't worth it...

"I worry about him. Constantly."

As innocent as that sounded, it felt like a threat. And I suddenly felt the need to check on Sherlock, personally. To make sure that he was safe.

A second chime sounded...

"If inconvenient, come anyway. SH"

I tried to be rational. I told myself that if he had the ability to text, he was fine. But the wording...the fact it was the second text inside of a minute...the conversation with this "arch-enemy"...my logic wasn't processing. I was beginning to worry.

"You're very loyal very quickly."

Not actually. I never said I trusted him. I don't trust anyone.

What do I know about him? He's a consulting detective. He assists the police when they are in over their heads. He has a dotting landlady, an insatiable curiosity...and, dare I say, a temper. He doesn't like being told he's wrong.

And he likes showing off.

Not that I mind. He is brilliant...fantastic.

And he is by far the most honest person I have ever met.

But I don't _really_ know him, do I?

"Trust issues...it says here."

I felt my stomach sink, and everything became very still. It had been...just a few days since my meeting with E. She had written exactly those words...And suddenly the bare office she kept made a lot more sense.

Well. Now I really am done going to therapy. No amount of talking would fix my limp, and I didn't want any of my other issues exposed to this man... If he was a threat to Sherlock, I would not be the weak spot to get to him.

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it. Welcome back."

The greeting was unsettling. I got the feeling I was supposed to know who he was... But I didn't have time to think about it. My phone went off again.

"Could be dangerous. SH"

It was the danger that caught my attention. Maybe my mystery kidnapper was right. Maybe my purpose was still as a soldier. Only now, I would be fighting a different kind of war.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson."

On my next breath, I made a decision. I could trust him. I _would_ trust him. I would trust Sherlock Holmes.

I made my way back to the car. If Sherlock was asking me to battle, I would go prepared. That gun still waited for me in my desk drawer.

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**A/N: Please let me know your thoughts, you know I like to hear from you!**


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